


Recovery

by hundredhanded



Series: Healing [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, F/F, Mild Smut, Pharmercy, my beautiful children, they finally did it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredhanded/pseuds/hundredhanded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since their kiss, Fareeha's thoughts all revolve around Angela. But an act of heroism on her part brings Angela to her room one morning, and it all comes to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

When Fareeha Amari moves, she moves through space permeated with and delineated by Angela Ziegler. As she flies in Raptora, the sun and the sand are Angela's hair, the curves of clouds the trimming on her Valkyrie suit, the deep blue of the morning sky her eyes. Angela is her firmament, above her and beneath her, heaven and the earth.

She does not let these constant thoughts of her show, of course. Her midday laps around the track grow faster, and more numerous, every day. Jack gives the team a written critical-thinking test, and she finishes before anyone else, her score perfect. Her accuracy on the training course rises from 96% to 98.5%, and Winston can't quite believe his eyes as he reviews the video replay. 

The team is deployed to Mumbai as crowd control during an anti-Omnic riot; some Molotov cocktails hit an apartment building, and the team evacuates the lower floors. But Fareeha's hearing, acute even over the roar of the flames and the shattering of windows, percieves screams from high above: she sees two faces, fraught with fear, at the top of the rapidly-burning building, and without a further thought throws her rocket launcher to the ground. She engages her suit's engines and flies up, up, _up_ , eight stories, Raptora's rockets screaming and sputtering, landing on the narrow windowsill, taking the terrified mother and child safely in her strong arms, then landing them oh-so-gently in the street below, without a scratch. 

Angela, looking on, gives her the oddest of looks. Lips parted, blue eyes wide and shining. Fareeha holds the image in her head for a very, very long time.

That night, she dreams of Angela: they are back in Khartoum, in the hospital. Angela draws her gun slowly, as though moving through water, and pulls the trigger. Flowers emerge from the barrel, red and violet and indigo; she plucks them and offers the bouquet to Fareeha. Everything is washed in a thick golden haze, and Angela's smile brings warmth to Fareeha's skin. And then she is in Fareeha's arms, naked, soft beyond imagining, the scent of Angela, of rosewood and jasmine, everywhere, omnipresent, crashing over her. (Fareeha punches her pillow in frustration when she wakes.)

It is early in the morning, 5:15 on a Saturday. Fareeha is engaging in her morning ritual, watching the sun rise, a large mug of Korashi tea in her hands, clad in her typical track pants and tank top. Legs beneath her in the lotus position, on her bed, facing east: she breathes, she sips, she holds her breath as the sun sets the clouds aflame. Her room is small but cozy; mementos and pictures on the walls, a couple of oil lamps lining the wainscotting, a bedside table and armoire both stacked with books and the odd discarded sports bra.

 _This woman will be the death of me,_ she muses.

And then the gentle rattle of a handle, and the creak of a slowly opening door. Fareeha moves into total alertness. Blonde hair, high cheekbones, blue eyes, a soft jaw peek through the door, and inside Fareeha is suddenly all shattered glass and gold haze.

"I had… I… I see you're awake," Angela stammers.

Fareeha, dry-mouthed and racing with adrenaline, somehow finds a small smile. "I do not sleep much, _Doctor_." At the teasing emphasis, Angela rolls her eyes, seeming to loosen up. She steps into the room properly, closing the door behind her. Fareeha's eyebrows raise imperceptibly. 

Angela's hair is tied in her ever-present ponytail, but it is uncombed: strands of hair dangle around her face, over the curve of her head, and behind her hair tie the rest of her hair spills, languid, unconcerned, shining in the sun. Her trusty pen lies tucked behind her ear. Though it is still early, she wears her lab coat, buttoned up primly.

"I—I wanted to see if you were up. To talk to you," Angela mumbles ruefully. She scuffs at the floor with her white high-top sneakers. 

She is standing near Fareeha's armoire, a long, elegant finger tracing the varnished wood. Fareeha realizes she is staring at her calves, but can't quite look away: she is lean, lithe, equally strong and delicate. She wrests her gaze away, and catches Angela looking at her with the same expression she had on the street in Mumbai. Fareeha realizes the nature of that look: it is one of worship. Awe. Reverence.

"You were so brave," Angela murmurs, darting in closer to Fareeha's bed, sinking to one knee beside it. "Yesterday. When you saved those people. I've never seen you fly so fast, so high. I know that your Raptora is specced to fly no more than twenty meters. You went well beyond that. Twenty-eight at least. You could have fallen." She reaches out and takes Fareeha's hand.

"It is my job," replies Fareeha, attempting coolness, looking away. Her mug of tea lies forgotten on her bedside table. 

Angela giggles. (Fareeha's heart dips and wobbles.) " _Nein, Liebling_. Saving lives is my job. But I could not have saved them. The Valkyrie cannot take me that high. It is your job," and here she swallows, "your job to strike, to fight. To call down fire on our enemies. So when I saw you drop everything and fly, _fly_ to save those people…" She trails off. "It was like… like music."

Angela reaches up, tentatively, towards Fareeha's face. Fareeha stays stock-still. The blonde's thumb meets the Eye of Horus tattoo. She breathes out reverently, caressing the Egyptian woman's face. Fareeha closes her eyes, then opens them, locking hers with Angela's, her expression intense, fierce, penetrating.

 _To hell with it,_ Fareeha intones silently. She pulls the blonde up, close to her, onto her lap, and stifles the smaller woman's yelp with a kiss. 

It is long, low, lingering. Angela is soft, yielding, before long making small, muffled noises into Fareeha's mouth, soft gasps, hums that border on moans. The only thought in Fareeha's head: _this, **this** is like music_. 

Their hands move up and down each others' bodies, feeling the curves and the heat beneath their clothes. Fareeha pulls away from the kiss, and Angela's eyes darken in confusion, until Fareeha reaches down and pulls off the gray tank-top, and Angela's eyes widen past imagining. She takes Fareeha's breasts in her hands, thumbs rubbing again over copper skin, and the sensation makes Fareeha shiver down to her bones. Another kiss, this one fierce, ravenous, nearly feral.

Fareeha's fingers fumble at the buttons of Angela's lab coat, and the Swiss woman squeaks into Fareeha's mouth. But beneath the lab coat there is no customary black turtleneck: nothing, nothing except a black, crochet-lace bra, curving down over ample breasts and a few inches of her torso. And skin, cream-colored, radiant, luminous in the morning light streaming through the window. Fareeha stops, thunderstruck, and forgets how to breathe or blink. 

A wine-colored blush spreads from Angela's cheeks down to her chest. Fareeha looks up at Angela's face, incredulous, then down at her décolletage, and up to her face again, and the shocked expression on her face is more than Angela can bear, and she starts laughing, collapsing in the taller woman's lap, and soon Fareeha finds herself laughing too, the sound pealing off the concrete walls. They are holding each other tight, Fareeha's face buried in Angela's hair.

"You tried to seduce me, Dr. Ziegler," Fareeha drawls. 

"Did it work, _Liebchen_?" Angela is wiping away remaining tears of laughter.

"Yes." And another kiss. And Fareeha's hands gliding over Angela's skin. And unclasped snaps of a bra, and hurriedly discarded panties. And fingers between legs, hot, damp, Angela's delicate and thin, Fareeha's calloused and strong, curving up through hair into warmth and wetness. And before long, Fareeha's head between Angela's legs, the smaller woman shuddering and gasping with every movement. And a yelled, twitching, quaking climax from Angela, and Fareeha's face, red with triumph and wet with Angela, rising to smile at her. And soon three of Angela's fingers inside her, and Fareeha scrabbling at and grabbing the sheets, and a low moan as the orgasm shoots through her. 

They lie in each other's arms, shivers still shooting through Fareeha, Angela now not-so-subtly wiping away one or two tears of joy. Soon they are asleep, together, for the first time, and the sun is over the horizon now, and the clouds are golden as Angela's hair, and the sky as blue as Fareeha's suit, and everything, just for a moment, is warm, and wonderful. They dream together, not of battlefields and wounds, but of each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I told you the third part would be less grim. This is done, finally. Thank you to all the people who left kudos and nice notes (and please do, if you enjoyed this; every comment fills me with boundless joy).
> 
> I'm planning to work on something much longer and ambitious next, though I hope to have time to do a few one-shots.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. This is my first series on AO3, and you all have been so kind.
> 
> And thank you, again, to problematick, my endlessly encouraging and brilliant beta reader.


End file.
